"Creativity rides the tides of love."
—Seth/Jane


o p e n

And
Polly's Odes For The Weatherman Peccadillo

Gray air hangs heavy over town and city,
it's hot and the humidity is high.
The locust revels though his fare is grittied
by the passing omnibus and fly.
The dust gets deeper with each rainless hour
spent awaiting Someday's thundershower.

Why should I hand the bird that bites me feed?

Since you couldn't say,
(and it wasn't gusty anyway),
I took my question of the wind
to Forest Park where my three
friends The Graces told me,
"Chilly breezes
blow when e'er Aeolus pleases
to torment us or to freeze us."

Why, to satisfy his any want or need.

Saturday you forsaw warmth
and sunshine in your crystal ball
Sunday heavy clouds appeared
that shed their burdens on us all.
But dampened hopes precipitate no tears--
your unassuming smile, as always, reigns.

His show of gratitude is strange indeed!

This weather's fine for Esquimaux
who dwell in houses made of snow,
who picnic gaily on the ice,
and frolic in the northern light.

 

His well-aimed beak (for fingers not for seed)

 

The Illusions of Four o' Clock

(after Wallace Stevens)

This room is haunted by vivid visions:
a cocky khaki general who becomes
three pink posing ladies who become
an old man fiercely frowning who becomes
a young man, smiling, wearing green,
riding a red cycle in blue weather.

attacks my fleshy thumb at lightning speed,

 

Enclosed--a Flower

What troubles you my star?
I hope you are not ill!
Herein a sunny daffodil.
If it fails to cheer you up
perhaps a yellow buttercup . . .
or maybe I could send you
a calendula to mend you?

then grabs the proffered grape with lusty greed--

 

Enclosed--a Photograph

So you're not amused by flowers?
Surely this will make you smile!
It's eyes are in the doleful style of Keene; it isn't merely sober, it's severe--
yet lightens me of, maybe, half my years.
(Ah--so young for one's appearing so austere!)
Your laughter may nigh bring you unto tears
but never fear--
life is full of rain and contradictions.
Mille pardons pour le chignon!

leaving me to curse . . and cry . . . and bleed.

 

Chapter 3

A distant urgent jangling draws her from her bed; she holds the cold receiver next her head: "Score bookstore!  It's a whale of a sale."  Confusion and delight--"Goodnight."  And once again our heroine neglects to ask the all-important "When?"  But it's all right, for in a flight of fancy she invites herself (the elf!), and abandoning convention dials the railroad station to inquire about a train . . .

Meditations Index

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